


five golden rings

by oversized_child (Hell_on_Wheels)



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Broken Engagement, F/M, Wedding Rings, Weddings, fuck you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hell_on_Wheels/pseuds/oversized_child
Summary: companion to four calling birds but can be read as a standalone





	five golden rings

Claire wakes up to sunlight and groans. A migraine is pounding her head, she’s lying at the table, her thoughts a chaotic tangle. Everything feels heavy. There are two thoughts running in a constant loop: _why the fuck did I open that window_ and _what the fuck is the time._

Eventually, she’s able to coordinate her thoughts together.

“Hey Siri,” her voices out slurred, and _will Siri even understand_

“Yes?” The familiar voice responded.

“What time is it?”

“It is currently 9:49 am in Vancouver, Canada. _”_

“Oh. Fuck.”

“Here’s what I found on the web for ‘oh. fuck’”

“Shit, uh, Siri, turn off please.”

There was no response so she took it to mean Siri turned off. Claire yawned, which evolved into a groan, before lifting her hand to push back her hair when her fingers come in contact with a slimy, sticky, goo.

Claire’s eyes widen slowly as she brings it down. “Are you. Fucking. Kidding me??” Her voice grows shrill. “I wake up with a fucking migraine, and then this? This is BULLshit.”

She stomps (or so she thinks; it was a bit more stumbling) over to the bathroom, washes, her hands, and disrobes. She’s ready to take a shower to cleanse herself of all this bullshit.

Claire gets in the shower, which turns on to cold water first before slowly warming up, effectively waking her up. “Argh. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck this.” She takes a handful of shampoo and like the directions say, lathers it gently. She even follows it with the recommended conditioner (even though it’s probably a marketing technique). She lathers the conditioner as well, right to her roots. Claire lets the warm water wash away the flowery scent of conditioner. She lifts her face and wipes once or twice to get rid of potentially hazardous shampoo and conditioner. Claire gets out of the shower, and pats herself dry. She leaves her hair in a drying towel contraption.

She walks into her bedroom, thinking of her outfit. “What about the forties? It’s pretty cold out, and I want to stay warm,” Claire states to no one in particular. Her migraine has died down (she thanks her penchant for vodka rather than rum, she’s read somewhere that supposedly rum and whiskey cause worse hangovers).

From her closet, she draws a dark green knee length dress. It’s rather, well, conservative, but it’s cold out. Claire pairs it with a newly bought beige pea coat, and a black belt. She changes into all this, her body shivering slightly when she took off her original, dirtied dress.

She walks out into her kitchen and makes a beeline for her medicine cupboard. Claire’s read somewhere that caffeine’s also good for hangovers? “Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone and swallow ibuprofen with coffee,” she muses. “Wait. Is that even like, healthy? Fuck. Hey Siri?”

“Yes?”

“Is it ok to mix ibuprofen with caffeine?”

“Here’s what I found on the web for ‘is it ok to mix ibuprofen with caffeine.’”

Claire grumbled. “Thanks, Siri. You can turn off now.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Fucking Siri. Nobody reads anymore, just read the first available article.”

She pops out two tablets and decides to go get a latte at Starbucks. “Fucking hangover. Wanna die.” She shuffles over to the sink, and pours a half glass of tap water. Claire pops the two tablets and flushes it down with the water.

In seconds, she’s feeling less like she was put through a shredder then deep fried. She looks at the scene of crime, and decides, maybe not. She sauntered over to the window, and admired the winter wonderland. A light brushing of shimmery frost had settled on the grass and covered up all the green. The sun was shining, but not to brightly as to melt the frost. A rush of cool air brushes at her face, and she giggles at the cold air.  
And then her face drains of all colour.

_That brush of cold air_

Things start returning to her.

_The smell of cigarette smoke_

Things that happened last night,

_Two red drinks,_

Things that should be left in dark corners,

_Those sounds of birds, of voices_

Come back.

_Michael_

Claire rushes over to the table with her phone, knocking over her chair in her distress. Claire picks up the little box of possibilities, of sorrow, of hope, and she desperately clicks the screen, putting in the password.

The dreaded and anticipated screen is the first thing she returns to, and Michael’s name is right at the top. Her finger is trembling when she hovers over the name, and clicks it, gambling all her emotions.

It’s the same message.

The horrifying and charming voice filled the space, repeating what she hoped wasn’t real. What all her nightmares were made of. Claire can feel her stomach churn, and suddenly, the ibuprofen pills feel like the heaviest things in her stomach, and her brain is filled with a sharp pain, her eyes are turning blurry, and she wants to throw her phone halfway across the room to just shut it up, stop the message from hell, but that intoxicating voice stops her, and tears are rushing out of her eyes, racing to get out the fastest, her brain hurts worse than her earlier migraine, and all she can think is Michael, Michael, Michael, over and over, a chant that she hopes with erase this damned voicemail - a chant which fails.

She’s been reduced to a trembling ball, hopelessly crying on the floor of her kitchen, her heart being crushed twenty different ways.

But, as countless have said and will continue to say, the show must go on.

* * *

She taps the call button when her voice has (mostly) stopped trembling. The phone rings once, twice, and the other side picks up.

"H-hey," Claire starts awkwardly.

"Oh, shit - uh, I wasn't expecting you to actually call me back." His familiar voice fills the speakers, and Megan's laugh in the background, and her eyes threaten to spill over again -

"Well, what sort of friend would I be if I didn't respond over jealousy?" Claire forces a laugh, hoping it'll pass as genuine to Michael's ears.

Michael seems to miss her forced tones in her laugh. He laughs in response, the commonplace sound slapping her in the face. "Well, I'm glad. Speaking of which, Megan wanted to ask you to be a - what was it?” He shouts. “Oh, right, a maid of honour. Would you?” Of course not.

"I would be delighted. So, uh, what's the lucky day?"

"It's gonna be January 5th. Megan decided on it, don’t believe anything she says.”

In the distance, she hears Megan defensively say that it was Michael, and they begin to laugh and poke fun at each other. She's privy to their moments together, to the banter they share. They're well and truly in love, fully devoted to one another, and she feels her stomach fall, and there are tears building up like a swarm of bees angrily buzzing in her chest.

"Haha,” she hears herself mimic a laugh that trembles, up and down and wobbly sounds. “Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds to it. January 5th, is it?"

Michael seems to not realize that she was talking to him. Claire laughs once more, but she knows he won’t hear. Maybe the laughter is to convince herself that she’s happy for them. She hangs up, and everything collapses. She’s lying on the kitchen floor again, shaking violently, and tears are streaming down her face, but her voice won’t make any noise.

* * *

It’s the day of their wedding. Everything’s been curated beautifully. There’s blue flowers on every guest in sight, blue flowers tangled with all the white. Blue flower trims on the cake. A blue corsage on Michael’s suit, a blue flower crown on Megan’s veil. If Claire didn’t despise this day so much, she’d stop to appreciate how carefully designed the wedding is.

Almost spitefully, she hopes that one of them will so no. She hates them for getting married, yes, but she hates herself (maybe) equally for hoping something like this.

Megan’s on her father’s hand, and her father’s holding back tears, (her mother’s given up and has been crying and dabbing at her face with a handkerchief). Megan is delivered up to the pew, standing face to face with Michael. Michael’s face is one of pure adoration, and she wants to rip that face off of Michael and replace it with disgust. Claire’s got all these ugly feelings, thoughts, tears, building up, stacking like a unpleasant house.

Claire wants Megan’s face to sicken her, wants _Michael’s_ face to sicken her, but she loves him too much, has given her heart to him for far too long, and she can’t bring herself to hate him. It hurts, seeing them in love.

"Michael, if you could repeat after me. I, Michael,"

_it hurts to hear the pastor say that_

"I, Michael,"

_but it hurts more to hear Michael_

"Take thee, Megan,"

_all those feelings are building up_

"Take thee, Megan,"

_stacking high_

"To be my lawfully wedded wife,"

_a sad messy goo_

"To be my lawfully wedded wife,"

_she wants to just collapse_

"Through rich and poor, through sickness and health,"

_break down_

"Through rich and poor, through sickness and health,"

_in a pool of her own tears_

"To love and cherish till death do us part,"

_wants Michael to comfort her_

"To love and cherish till death do us part,"

_even though it’s Megan’s lucky day_

"And thereto I pledge myself to you."

_(oh god, she actually feels like she’s going to collapse)_

"And thereto I pledge myself to you."

_(they’re filling her eyes and blurring her vision)_

"You may now kiss the bride."

Michael, carefully, takes off the veil. And Megan’s staring up at Michael, and in their eyes is a spark of love. And Claire hates it, wants to rip her eyes out, wants to rip her hair out, and her tears are running down her cheeks. Everybody’s staring, and she smiles, and pretends to be happy. Everybody’s clapping and cheering when they’re kissing, and she forces herself to smile and laugh and clap, and it’s so beautiful

_(but how can something so beautiful hurt so bad)_

* * *

It's the dinner after, and Michael tings a glass. "Hear ye, hear ye, for a word from our maid of honour, Clarissa!"

Everyone's cheering and clapping, She stands up shyly. and smiles a little smile at the cheering crowd.

"First, I'd like to testify as to how lucky Megan is to have such a sweet husband. As some of you may know, I used to date Michael. The breakup wasn't actually that bad,” False, it was the worst (well, now second worse) imaginable thing Claire had ever experienced, "And we left as friends. So it took me as a surprise when he called me up, years later, to ask me to be a maid of honour for his wedding day. I mean, imagine, asking your ex to be a maid of honour!"

This elicits laughs from the audience. She's breaking, the last words being weighed down with genuine emotions.

"But I can say, with my whole heart that I'm so, so happy for the couple. I mean, look at them. Look at how good they look together!" The gathered guests cheer, and Michael and Megan blush. "Aw, don't get shy now. It's your lucky day!” Her voice comes out cheerful, but it’s cracked.

"And I'd like to wish the best to our newlywed couple, Michael and Megan, the most fulfilling relationship. They've been some of the most supportive and kind people in not only my life but many other people's, and I think we all share the sentiment that they deserve each other." A lie, built on a lie, built on a lie.

She's crumbling like puff pastry, like sand, and she starts feeling the tears again like a gathering storm, building and building till they can't be held, and she smiles as she cries. "I'm, so, so happy for you two. I mean look, I'm so happy I'm crying!" Claire laughs bitterly at this, and the other guests laugh too (Not noticing her cracks)

and the two get swarmed by the finishing of her speech, and she takes the opportunity to bolt. She gets to the exit, and nods at the security, and finds a limo parked just outside. Maya's sitting in the driver's seat, and nods for Claire to get in.

Claire lets out a long sigh. Bitterly, she’s chuckling, and tears start quietly rolling down her eyes.

“On the fifth day of Christmas,” Claire sings quietly, pitifully. “My true love gave to me, five golden rings.”


End file.
